


Tell Me Forever

by GoodyBag



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodyBag/pseuds/GoodyBag
Summary: Prompt: "England has a secret admirer who has gone from romantic gestures like sending flowers and writing him love letters to threatening him and his friends/family out of crazed obsession. Instead of freaking out England goes into Sherlock mode, and tries to identify said admirer himself, but ends up making the situation a million times worse."This is a de-anon from the kink meme. I started it in 2016 but never finished it, so I intend to finish it here half a decade later.
Relationships: England/North Italy (Hetalia)
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first few chapters of this story were written in 2016, they have been lightly edited since but don't reflect my current writing standard! Once I finally get some free time I'll work on finishing this =]

Cute. So...cute.

Veneziano gazed across the table, his subject ignorant to the attention. The whole world, in fact, was ignorant to the Italian's desire. With his lidded eyes, he was able to peacefully observe England and all his little quirks – pen nibbling, doodling, finger tapping – unnoticed.

“Italia!” a thundering voice turned his attention away from his Brit. He didn't frown, though he wanted to, but grit his teeth and smiled stupidly. The dopey smile that would once have been effortless.

“Yes, Germany?”

“Pay attention! You are not here to daydream, you are here to listen and contribute,”

Veneziano gave a little pout. “But I was paying attention...” he muttered, with one more glance to England. Germany had returned to his speech, but seemed to be keeping an eye on him. Veneziano sighed and forced his foolish grin to return. There would be plenty of time to watch England later.

\---------------

He wasn't sure exactly when he decided England belonged to him. It was a recent change, but Veneziano had suffered so many changes of late that they were all muddled together. He had gone through three months of complete turmoil and the entire period was a headache inducing blur.

He remembered the beginning, when Romano had been sneering his usual insults, and something inside Veneziano had snapped like an old guitar string. He'd then spent a panicked day practising his old smile, after catching his reflection and barely recognising the blood red anger he saw in his expression. From there every day was a battle to contain a onslaught of terrifying emotions he had never before struggled with - rage, hate, bitterness.

No-one had noticed, no-one had reached out.

Except for England. It was a brief mumble of concern during a conference coffee break - “Are you okay?” - in which Veneziano had been caught staring blankly at his empty cup. His practise paid off, and he was able to quickly plaster on his signature dumb smile.

“Of course!”

England had shaken his head and returned calmly to his tea, but Veneziano's heart was racing. It was the most warmth he had felt within himself in weeks. Perhaps that had been when he had fallen in love with England – but logic told him it couldn't be. He certainly loved England at that moment. He was completely overwhelmed with the emotion. But such an intense love couldn't come out of nowhere. Veneziano treasured that day regardless. It might not have been the first time he felt love for England, but it was the first time he remembered, and so it was a very precious memory.

\---------------

Love. It was such a beautiful thing. When the change had happened, he stopped feeling love and it had been the loss hardest to take. His life had always been full of love. He had so many people to give to, and so many to receive from. He was cold and scared without it. But when he had begun to love England, he had begun to reclaim his sanity. A few pieces were missing – empathy and sympathy, compassion, morality – but those pieces were unimportant. Without them clouding his brain, he could truly think. And he truly thought that they were weak and useless and had been weighing him down for years.

He had love. It was the only “weak” emotion he needed. It kept away the even weaker emotions – pain, fear, loneliness. When he thought about England, he didn't think about how empty and cold he had become. He couldn't love his brother anymore, nor Spain nor Germany nor France nor Japan. But if he could only love England, that was okay. He'd just have to love England all the more for it.

It was funny, he thought, as he watched England yell at France over a paper bag of McDonald's fries - Veneziano was grateful that France was concerned for England's health and diet, but more grateful that England was pushing the disgusting, perverted, meddling, cheating Frenchman away and not letting himself be coddled. Veneziano was the only one who could coddle England. Not that England knew it yet - it was funny that he had once been so terrified of England.

He remembered it like it was yesterday – because it almost was to someone centuries old. England had never seemed that scary when they were children, but from his teenage years up until just a few months ago, England had scared him stupid

Big nations like Russia and Germany and Sweden were supposed to be scary. They had the body, the stare, the aura. England didn't. England was like him. He was slender, smooth, and a pretty-boy...regardless of his eyebrows. Yet somehow he could stand alongside nations like Russia and Germany and be just as daunting. And it was that that had always terrified the Italian.

There was no fear now. For England, there was only love. But it couldn't remain one-sided love for ever – Veneziano wouldn't be able to cope. Meetings had been on and off for months, and for the past few, he had just been observing. Quietly observing.

He had to act.

\---------------

Veneziano's enthusiastic note-taking after lunch had confused more than a few. No-one paid any real attention, however. Doodles and scribbles, they assumed. Germany might, in curiosity, have taken a quick glance after the meeting, had he not been distracted by Prussia's unexpected appearance. If he had looked, he would not have seen doodles, nor would he have seen notes on terrorism and the refugee crisis.

He would have seen lists, diagrams, and charts. What gestures were romantic, and what specifically to England. What did England like and what should be avoided. What could be done anonymously and from afar. What risked premature discovery. What would England figure out, and what would throw him off track. What would he share with others and what would he keep to himself. 

If Germany had glanced at Veneziano's notes that day, he would not have left the conference room so calm and composed.


	2. Chapter 2

The first bouquet came in the middle of May. England's fairies were not amused, and neither was the man himself. England ignored the fae flitting around the blossoms – snipped and 'dying' flower bouquets, stolen from their roots and soil, were not a tradition they approved of – and stormed through to the kitchen. He would have slammed the flowers down had his fairies not been at risk of injury. It was a testament to France's acting ability, England decided, that the man looked so stunned.

“Do you think this is funny?”

France raised a sceptical eyebrow as he glanced at the name tag dangling from the plastic wrapping, “Hmm, someone sent _you_ flowers? Oui, that is funny,” Francis seemed to ponder for a moment before shrugging and returning his attention to the stove, to the great irritation of the Englishman.

“Now, see here. I let you into my home, despite my previous experiences with you, under the agreement that I would not be mocked or harassed. I am not falling for any stupid pranks, nor for any attempt to get me into bed with you. I will care for these flowers only to appease the fairies, and then as soon as possible you shall leave,” England huffed and gave an indignant nod, but decided against storming out of the room. The cooking breakfast did smell good after all.

“The fai- never mind. I have nothing to do with these with flowers, I'm afraid. I am here for some quality time with you – all this time spent alone is not good for you – don't give me that look, you go weeks without seeing any of us in person – and also to make sure your body doesn't rot from the inside from all this unhealthy food. Two full biscuit tins and an empty fruit bowl, I don't know how you are still so slim. You should count yourself very lucky since you certainly haven't been exercising, I know you too well...” France's rant went on, and although irritated, England was too perplexed to argue back.

France really hadn't sent the flowers – England knew his character intimately, and the truth would have slipped quickly should he have been the culprit. Frowning, he fiddled with name-card. The bouquet was nothing expensive, but he'd never before received anything like it – at least, nothing genuine. A little flustered, he tried to rid himself of the hopeful warmth in his chest as he decided the matter needed further investigation.

\-----------

His investigation had led to nothing except a short-lived excited stir among his closest friends. All his prankster acquaintances – America, Prussia, Denmark, Sealand, and so on – had earnestly denied knowledge of the flowers. Japan and Hungary had been left giddy at the idea of a secret admirer, but to the credit of them, and to all the others England had questioned, they had not spread anything around. Eventually, with no more word from England on the case, they forgot about it and moved on.

However, although he had kept it quiet, the flowers weren't the last gift to arrive at his door-step.

England had no policy of self honesty, but he couldn't help but admit that he was slightly...happy. He used to feel unwanted. Lonely he was used to, but as his colonies dwindled away he also felt unneeded and, recently, slightly pathetic. That someone might be admiring him was touching. He was no hormone-driven teenager, nor some lonely, desperate housewife, and so he wasn't about to fall head over heels for someone whose identity was still a mystery. But, despite countless flings and interest in his body, no-one had ever, in all his life, shown interest in him like this before.

Sweet notes in romantic cards, fine chocolates ordered through some of London's best local chocolatiers, weekly bouquets which increased in quality and price each delivery. A few romantic poems – not originally composed by his admirer, but chosen with class from some fine English poets – had been sent to his personal e-mail, confirming that he was, fortunately, dealing with a fellow nation and not a mortal. He might not have been stupid enough to fall for the first person to show attention to him, but for now, England was content to collect his gifts and let himself feel good for once.

It was an innocent, romantic, pleasant few months, and England was happy to let it continue on in this way. He never once tried to back-trace anything – save for that first May bouquet, in which he had been told the sender had ordered anonymously. He had no-one in mind that he himself admired, and so a reveal would likely mean rejection from the Brit and an end to the wonderful gifts. So a little selfishly, he ignored the issue of authorship, and continued to accept the present and hold his little secret close to himself, away from prying Hungarian eyes.


End file.
